Hollywood agents stole each other's clients, and when they pounced, swooping on a star on holiday in Hawaii, or helicoptering on to an actor's yacht, or presenting a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce for use on the set of a film packaged by a rival, it was not the ethically free stealth that awed Michael when he read of the stories in Variety, but the gung-ho commandeering of expensive transport. Jets chartered, helicopters hired, yachts and speedboats jumped on so agents could be seamlessly in place around someone else's client. Steroid representation meant showbiz gestures, a blank-cheque attitude to making the pitch, and it struck Michael as hair-raising that Coburn Agency were propelling another two agents around the earth's curve so that Hammond could be assisted to meet him on a Saturday morning in an Italian town. Such supersonic ubiquity was the index of a client's power. His agents were on twenty-four-hour call, could be airborne any moment, made to move like pinballs across continents. They were the suits and the suits did not have private lives or suffer jet-lag. They were simply units of representation who could take their Hollywood functions to any venue, beach or rain-forest, protecting a client's interests without deviation or regard for local scenery. Coburn had scrambled Sabbatini and Mahler, the humans in his office, to fly through nine time zones, hard-drive against their body clocks, in order that Michael, when he arrived at the Sirenuse Hotel on a Saturday morning, could be greeted by the gentlemanly Mahler as a long-lost friend and guided through the foyer to an equally personable handshake with Gloria Sabbatini, Coburn's in-house attorney, wearing white chemise and power-jacket.
Michael was almost soothed by Mahler's good-guy smile. Here was a man well-adjusted to celebrity management, the nerves of demanding stars and the trepidation of ordinary mortals. He could handle the vibes with the alert gentleness of a trusted uncle. They sat down on the foyer seats, a huddle of three, Mahler extolling the Amalfi coast, Gloria explaining her Italian roots, as briefcases were opened and documents withdrawn. Michael twice checked his jacket pocket, feeling for the option agreement. He was soothed by Mahler's dapperness, the signet ring and French cuffs; the tan suit on white shirt; the perfectly knotted tie, nice teeth and cappuccino complexion. This man had played golf with studio bosses and corporate honchos, had attended the birthday parties of movie stars' children, was that mildly phoney but essentially welcome thing: an American gentleman. He had one gold molar.
Gloria kept the remains of a New York accent, a bold, masculine, husky sound that went well with a rippling laugh and quick hands. She placed the documents on a coffee table before Mahler. In Coburn's absence Mahler was the senior agent. He wore his authority lightly.
'Thank you, sir,' he said, taking Michael's option agreements and passing them to Gloria.
'Gloria's the legal eagle. Don't look too closely, hon. I want to hit the pool before Yule.'
'Three-page deal memo,' she said neutrally.
'Short and sweet. Just how I like 'em. Say, Michael, can I get you a drink?'
He declined. 'Where's Rick?'
'Poolside with Adela and Shane. Hey! How'd that happen?'
'He gets the real tough assignments,' sighed Gloria.
'Myself,' shrugged Mahler, 'I find it so terribly arduous talking to extremely beautiful women.'
'She's gorgeous,' said the lady attorney, her voice unnaturally deep.
'You'll want to check these out.' Mahler passed a draft agreement and side-letter across the table. 'Shay's on a pretty tight schedule. When you're happy with the black and white, and I've read it myself and it looks great, maybe we can mosey down the terrace and get everyone introduced.'
He explained about faxing his colleague. Mahler took him to reception and left Michael to it. He watched the pages slide through the fax machine. Over his shoulder he saw Gloria conferring with Mahler about the option agreement. Her hands made three points. Mahler tongued his cheek, nodded knowingly. The document seemed to pass muster.
When the fax had gone he stood by the reception desk scanning their three-page agreement and side-letter. The first agreement was with a company called Cine Inc, the entity Hammond was using for the project. The second was with Coburn Agency. The Cine Inc document contained the terms of his producer deal, exactly reproducing the figures he had demanded from Coburn. The side-letter detailed Michael's cut of the packaging fee. He read quickly. Everything, to his astonishment, was included, sums doubled in words and numerals. The shortness of the agreement and the simplicity of expression was final proof of Adamson's assessment: the agents desperately wanted to close the deal. Long-form contracts might follow, but on signature of these pages he would receive one hundred thousand dollars and further unconditional undertakings.
Michael was relieved, and he could tell from the way Mahler smiled that Mahler expected him to be. They had not fought. The agent could afford to be generous.
Without mentioning Adamson's name, he explained the procedure. Mahler nodded graciously. If necessary they could amend in ink. The crucial thing was to sign before Shane departed.
'Ready to meet the star?'
They descended a flight of steps, went under arches along an arcade that was spaced by huge urns and the vista of a bar with white piano and glass-polishing waiter. An elderly man in bathrobe and raffia sandals crossed their path. A chambermaid disappeared into a lift. The establishment was quiet, in late-October lull, but eternally tuned to a five-star pitch of presentation and service. A moustached manager in a double-breasted suit met them with a smile and enquired after their happiness as they arrived on the terrace like long-standing guests. The view from the terrace was spotlit, like a painting in a gallery held up to the satisfaction of the hotel's guests, as though the Sirenuse, so well placed to behold the town from the superiority of its position, purveyed the full Positano experience to guests who might not wish to venture beyond the complacence of poolside sunbeds. Patrons could swim and sip long drinks in the knowledge that a masterpiece was before them, its colours palpitating beyond the balcony rail. At the end of the rail, at a discreet point beyond the pool's far corner, Michael saw a cluster of figures: two white-coated waiters bent over a trolley, bright-haired Adela, the figure of a man wearing sunglasses and lying back on his deckchair as if determined to imbibe every beam of the sun's good will. And Rick Weislob.
As they cornered the pool, closing the gap in space time between himself and Shane Hammond, Mahler prepared his cuffs, and Gloria set her best smile. Meanwhile, Hammond watched them approach without making any physical preparation for the imminence of Michael's arrival. Michael was knotted up and pale-skinned, in no state to impress movie star or shop assistant.
The introductions were a haze. Hammond sprang to his feet with last-minute energy, giving Michael a sharp handshake and a firm look, immediately conveying authority. Mahler's hands directed other introductions and reacquaintances. Adela's cheek came forward, her husky 'Hi' breathing through scented waft. Weislob swiped his hand and grasped his elbow and conducted him with a shoulder pat to a seat near Hammond. Gloria and Mahler drew up chairs and Mahler sounded pleasantries and requested the waiters to serve coffee whilst Adela repositioned herself in draped elegance behind Hammond, as though she planned to be more of a talented spectator than an active participant.
Hammond was shorter than Michael expected, neat-figured in chinos and white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up revealing good forearms and strong hands, and it came as a shift to see the famous face in three dimensions, something you could walk around and check from all angles. He seemed little more than thirty-five or -six, though he must have been forty. His hair was short, well kept, his demeanour high-tempered, royal.
Mahler made jokes about Italian paparazzi and Italian film distributors, eking joviality into the gathering, and Hammond kept his mouth shut and listened to the prelude with tolerance.
This quietness later seemed like deliberate poise, a reticence that kept him in the centre of attention whilst others were being listened to. The Englishman's worldwide success allowed him new economy of output and expression. Meetings had to be efficient. Meetings were not an actor's métier. They were a necessary imposition on scarce time and private moods, and Michael suspected, through the blur of his nervousness, that this American servility might even be embarrassing to an RSC actor. Hammond was famous. He needed top agents. But he was also British.
Michael had been terrified since he woke. He had come out of sleep suddenly, lurched forward and remained transfixed in the mess of his sheets while the tank of his mind filled with its slow, corrupted fluid, consciousness discoloured by guilt. His shame was greater in the morning than in the misery of the night, because the intervening hours had surely worsened things for Hilldyard, and improved nothing for Michael. What he had done would have sunk in now, progressed from shock to an established bruising or rupture; and every successive waking moment would indict Michael further, time itself cementing Hilldyard's despair, his sense of violation.
He had dressed like a man preparing himself for an ordeal. He found an earring of Adela's, held it to his lips, put it in his pocket. It was hard to think about her. She had derailed him from a sense of self, and yet he had followed her, gone with her, wherever that was. She had prised him away from his centre and he had no idea how to construe such an experience. It left him numb, motiveless as far as she was concerned. Adela, he realised, made love in a value-free zone. That's how she liked it, and she liked it because everything else was so stressfully calculated and intelligently strategic, and she liked it hard and lithe and brazenly carnal; though nothing had been possessed by feeling.
He needed to talk to her now; see how she felt about things, was affected. He needed the reassurance of a conversation that had nothing to do with Shane Hammond.
He had no idea how to impress Hammond. He had his wits but no certitude, no integrity to fall back on. His moral pith was extracted. And yet today was his day, and he found it completely strange to know that in a few hours he might consolidate his power by signing a deal. That would be final. He had it in his control to damn himself, an important opportunity which he must seize with determination. Retreat was impossible because on that side of things he had left nothing. The logic of peril forced the next stage, gave desperate necessity, and the manly thing was to get on with it. Then at least he would have objective strength – whatever the condition of his soul. His soul might wither and die. But so it could, if he had the money, and a hook into the future. And then, perhaps, his love for Adela would redeem the inner man, if she would let him love her as he wanted to.
Time to call Adamson.
Where he was it was late. He was audibly tired, though with the steady tone of a man using his last push of concentration to get a deal closed. Adamson did not let go. His sense of detail, his foreshortening of problems, the long-distance will-power he threw at Michael – these qualities were the essence of his being, making him endlessly high-concentrate. Phoned-out by a day in the office, his normal weavy spiel was slowed down. He took longer to collect the points.
'Say something nice about one of his films.'
'Yes.'
'Thinking Time.'
Michael hesitated. 'I never saw it.'
'Say you admire his work.'
He let out breath. 'OK.'
'Shake his hand and say it. Right off. First thing. Listen, this man's a rich, famous actor. Unlike other rich, famous people, he's insecure, paranoid and petulant.'
'Are you sure about that?'
'Eggshell time. You can't over-stroke an actor's ego.'
'He'll be relieved, surely.'
Adamson laughed wearily. 'Shane Hammond relieved? From where he stands, you just pulled a fast one.'
'I've got him the rights, Nick!'
'But he wants the project. So he can't be rude. And, likewise, you can't imply that you have him by the balls, or think you have. Sensitive. On the other hand . . .'
'He wants to do the deal.'
'He knows you can't back out.'
'What?'
'Your deal's too rich.'
'I can back out.'
'Unrealistic.'
'If I don't like his pitch I . . .'
'They'll know you're locked in. Coburn's not stupid.'
'But . . .'
'Which means you can be marginalised.'
Michael was behind, his intuition adrift. He panicked. 'It's a situation of complementarity. Of mutual interest.'
'Your so-called editorial control means Jack-shit unless Hammond buys the Hilldyard veto.'
'Hilldyard doesn't have a veto.'
'You'll get no respect from Hammond unless you stand up to him.'
'I'll stand up to him.' The words sounded hollow.
'If he thinks you've ransomed him, he'll know you're buyable. If he knows you need money, he'll realise that, eventually, you'll cave in on everything. And he'll make the film he wants to make.'
'Surely he respects Hilldyard?'
'Hey. Don't believe what you read in women's magazines.'
These equivocations weighed on him. 'I'm not prepared to just make any film.'
There was a pause.
'Perhaps we'll see eye to eye.'
Adamson started up slowly, framing and phrasing the presentation in its best light; and as he spoke, Michael felt a terrible longing for his words to be true.
'Your leverage is that you own Hilldyard. You have the relationship, and no matter how cynical Hammond feels, that relationship he has to respect. Like Hilldyard's major. Huge. A great living novelist. And you're his special friend. Now take that proposition one stage further. It's as if you are Hilldyard, an apostle of his taste. He's selected you to defend the . . . uh . . . keynote themes of the book, whatever they are, against false adaptation, development hell and blah-de-blah . . .'
'It's just that I know' – he had no one else to tell this – 'Hammond wants to ''open it out''.'
'And it's your God-given job to ensure fidelity to the . . . whatever . . . of the book. That's your role. Without that role you're just a man to pay off. Michael, you have to go toe to toe with him, or he'll know your ligging, and your control will end when you sign on the line.'
'Right.'
'It's a gamble.'
He realised that he was too far in. There would be nothing left for him if Hammond pulled out.
'Make him respect you.'
'Yes.'
'Be yourself. Say what you believe. Think about the book's bottom line.'
'These things are so subtle.'
'I mean, don't fucking blow it!'
'No.'
'But don't let them think you're a patsy.'
'I'm not.'
'Sell the Hilldyard pedigree.'
'Right.'
He could see it now. Nothing he said would be true any more.
He was politely listening to Tom Mahler. The longer Mahler spent recapping the situation for Hammond's benefit, the more oppressive Hammond's silence became. His brow was furrowed against the glare of the light and the gist of gathering issues. He was not handsome in a notch-jawed, straight-nosed way. Rather his face held intensity, like the young Orson Welles; the cheeks were broader, the mouth tighter-lipped, and the eyebrows capable of an ironic setting within an essentially serious demeanour. Hammond was more masculine than beautiful, though the eyes, when they flashed sideways, were surprisingly fine, unexpectedly so. An actor had to have natural attributes as well as talent.
He was still, listening to Mahler.
Michael swapped flat looks with Adela from time to time. She was neutral, of course. He felt the impulse to reassure her, to let her know he was OK now and that she could ignore his anger of the previous night. She did not need to worry about that. He would handle that; his problem. He looked at her miraculously incarnated yet again and found it impossible to believe he had had the luck to touch and kiss this woman, impossible to think she was still his. It lifted his yearning, and once raised, he found the desire to love almost unbearable. Such precious sensations needed a haven. They were the best thing left in him.
'Gentlemen, Michael has done us a great favour in making of himself a kind of link, if you will, in the association between Coburn Agency and James Hilldyard, and I think we now appreciate that in our previous design for the project there was an element missing which he has provided. Certainly there are details to finesse. Every movie has a one-off dynamic. But Michael will correct me if I'm wrong in saying we have a way forward on the commercial terms and will be in a position, with Gloria's permission, to sign off this morning, if that is our wish. Michael, we sincerely appreciate you, and I'm sure you respect the impact on any project of Shane Hammond. This man you see before you is one of the most important figures in contemporary cinema. He has great achievement behind him and a golden future. I'm here to ensure that his interests as director and star of this film are protected, and that any new element coming to the mix synchs with his vision of the film. We cannot paper this over. That's why we're here and I want us to dwell on it carefully. The agenda is simple. Gentlemen, how do we envision this movie?'
Michael finished his coffee and was available to speak. The important thing was not to dive in.
'Shay, d'you want to lead off?'
The star rubbed his eyes, hung his head. 'Can we back up a mo?'
Mahler raised palms. 'Please.'
Shane cleared his throat; his sinuses were heavy. He spoke in a low-toned voice of gravelly resource, which tended to a drawl, as if he were trawling for the essence of his concern. 'I'm sure I should be grateful to Michael . . . for his intervention. You know . . . I'd written this project off. So . . . Great. Congratulations on your no doubt considerable persuasive skills.' He coughed. 'What I don't get, and pardon me if I'm being a bit fluey and thick, is the exact difference between the kind of film the author thinks Michael would make with his blessing, and the kind of film he wouldn't let us make.' He squinted.
'Michael, that's a key question.'
Michael hesitated, remembering himself. He faced Hammond's inquisition directly. It was a direct question, and a direct answer was in order. There could still be integrity on this matter.
'He trusts my judgement.'
Hammond did not experience this as a sequitur, but took up the point.
'What did he think was so wrong with my judgement?'
There was a pause. 'He has no personal knowledge of your judgement.'
Hammond kept the sun out of his eyes. 'I've done some pretty good films.'
'Of course.'
'I don't think my image is particularly lightweight.'
'Shane has an Oscar,' said Mahler. 'Literally countless theatre awards. You should see his CV. It's gold-plated.'
'I'm not boasting.' He smiled falsely. 'I'm just not clear what values you stand for that I don't.'
Adela moved to the edge of the chair, bit her lip.
Michael was taken aback by the hostility, not foreseen on this point. It had never occurred to him that Shane might have taken Hilldyard's rebuff as a personal slight.
'I've done Shakespeare, Chekhov, Strindberg . . .'
'You stand for a lot.'
'Yeah, but you stand for more.'
Adela caught his eye, saw him take up the challenge.
'I've worked with him,' he said softly.
'And what's the magic ingredient?'
'Oh.' It came easily. 'I believe in the integrity of his work.'
'You have a monopoly on integrity?'
He wondered if Hammond was always upfront, or whether he was just irked by Michael's presence in his life.
'I sincerely hope not.'
'As in we're peasants if we don't agree with you?'
Mahler intervened. 'With respect, Shane, Michael never said that.'
'Where is James Hilldyard?' Hammond blew his nose. 'I want his blessing.'
Michael's anger was rising now. Shane was overstepping the mark.
'Tied up.'
'He's tied up?'
He hesitated. 'He writes for a living.'
Hammond appreciated the dryness of the answer. 'So what are you? A quality monitor?'
It was a dangerous moment.
'Some kind of watchdog?'
'I'm the producer.'
'Who's never produced a film before.'
He checked himself, thought for a second. 'No. But show me an experienced producer who's managed to get the rights to this book.'
'I've got that.' Hammond shot to his feet, superbly volatile. 'But here we are talking about your combining with a team to whom Mr Hilldyard wouldn't sell the rights, and what I don't get is why you think you can do a deal with me when he wouldn't.'
Michael swallowed. 'I hope I can deal with you.'
'You hope so, eh?'
He glanced at Adela. 'Yes.'
'So what would you like to know? How may we satisfy you?'
There was no help to be had from Mahler. Nobody wished to go against the grain of Hammond's ill-temper. If this was how he felt, then that was the issue, as ungainsayable as crappy weather. Michael, in the depths of his chagrin, saw very well that Hammond's benevolence was not stirred by Mahler's description of him as a white knight. His contribution would not be appreciated. His presence slighted Hammond's autonomy. He was an unwelcome reminder, perhaps, that Hammond's powers were not absolute. The actor had gone to Hollywood hoping to shake off this kind of literary middle-class Englishman.
How arrogant of Hammond to assume he had no judgement because he had not produced a film!
'Perhaps we should discuss the film,' he said.
Hammond stood by the table taking a replenishment of his coffee from the waiter.
'You want to vet the approach.'
'Shay.' Mahler extended a hand, like some intervening biblical figure in a Renaissance painting. 'Hilldyard's last movie was a box-office stinker. A total flop-out dodo. Without any disrespect to you, the author is jumpy about adaptation. In appointing Michael to safeguard his interests he's making a gesture of trust. Michael wants to help us, not hinder us, and it's in everybody's interests to do a movie that squares not only with our goals and ambitions but with the author's. It's a question of mutuality, not compromise. We have to respect this very fine novel, and Hilldyard, through Michael here, must surely respect our concerns. For sure, the movie concept must have integrity by all our standards. See, Michael, Shane is so committed to this project. He will star, he'll direct, he will live and breathe this project for one year, eighteen months and understandably he's protective of his baby. And Shay, I know I'm right in saying that Michael wants to help you do this. He sees it as your vehicle, will work to your ends, and enrich your ambition with very valuable consultation and advice.'
'Do I have to parade my vision of the film before you now?' said the actor.
The insolence was so personal, Michael had to manage his restraint. 'I'd love to hear your vision.'
Hammond came back to his chair, sat down and placed his coffee on the ground. His expression went serious, a shift of mode. He pulled his hand over his face, glimpsed around him with artistic pain.
'What can I tell you? This book hit me like a rabbit punch in the kidneys. It went off in my head like a rocket. I'm not sure why. The sick wife. Well, OK, my mother died of cancer. Wham. That gets you. That was one of the worst years of my life, and boy, does he nail that bad trip to the mast! The impossible affair, beautiful, forbidden, self-destructive. Tell me about it. Those two things together . . . one fucking great way into a character. I liked the domestic backdrop. So muted and familiar, cluttered with reassuring things, completely sterile. Not the habitat of a hero. This is where a weak, prematurely middle-aged man is dying away his life. His soul's in the fridge with the fruit juice and bacon rashers. Then wallop, he's in love. Brief Encounter with a catch. He goes the distance and when he gets there he can't do it. Can't commit. Blows the gig and then the gig blows him. The set-up is over his head and then things go really wrong. That's a love story with a sting. And maybe I'm revealing too much about myself if I tell you it hit me here.' He punched his chest.
Michael nodded.
'Your man can write the arse off a donkey. He's telling us a lot about ourselves. Stuff we may not want to hear.'
She was looking at him. Michael returned the look suddenly.
'But stuff that happens everywhere. Love and death is here in Italy, there in Greenland, alive and well in some kitchen sink of an American backwater town. The core of this book will travel. And I want to make a film that gives audiences everywhere that core. On screen.'
He cleared his throat, looked into the sky, tongue under lip. 'How to adapt?' Hammond seemed pained, as though bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Michael nodded.
'The story drives a knife in and turns it. That's why I'm interested. What can I say? Either I connect with the material or I don't. Right now this story's preying on my mind. I want to lift that complexity and richness off the page and slam it on to the screen. How?' He bunched his fist. 'Is another matter. You've got to do things. Pull it apart. Knock it back together again. You got to strip out, add on, restructure. It's a fucking hassle. I've worked with screenwriters. These things don't write themselves. Forget that. That's donkey work. What counts is that we build it up in a way that's true to the novel. That's what I want. That's what I care about. That's why I'm sitting here.'
His hands remained aloft, waiting for further inspiration, and for a moment Michael thought he would continue. His vibrancy had risen quickly, and there was still a tremor in the air. Hammond had no conversational inclination, no social élan when surrounded by men of business. What he carried with him was the handy volatility of the great thespian, the trained and channelled passion that could erupt at the press of a button, grabbing whatever rhetoric lay to hand, and impress executives and agents with the unquestionable thunder of talent.
There was nothing wrong with what he said. He had testified to his deep response, and that was his bond. He was a person wired to his own emotions, used to running on the force of instincts, and after the manifesto shock-wave of his first speech would recompose himself and check what else it might be necessary to say.
Mahler leaned forward. 'Does that make sense, Michael?'
'Of course.'
Hammond eyed him carefully.
There was a pause.
'How d'you see the adaptation,' he asked, 'from a director's viewpoint?'
Hammond was not enlightened by the question.
'I mean . . . do you think it needs opening out?'
'Michael, I'm glad you mentioned that,' said Mahler.
Hammond glanced at his hands, unready to commit further thoughts.
'How did you describe the film to your financiers?' Michael asked.
'Shay, d'you want to take this, or shall I?'
Hammond shrugged.
'OK,' said Mahler. 'Like you said. We've got to get this lovely book out of its covers and on to the screen. When we go to script, we'll go with a blueprint. We figure Shane needs to do this picture summer of next year. So there can be second drafts and third drafts, but we need to be on track with the first draft. To keep that schedule we've put Rick and the story department on to the project to brainstorm parameters prior to selecting our screenwriter. We've talked to the money. We've kicked ideas around with Shay, and we're trouble-shooting the problem areas down to a real tight brief. Can I be frank? It's a great book. But it's a book. To make this work as a Shane Hammond vehicle it needs opening out big time. Gee, the story department have come back with some very creative ideas. You know, the story's kind of bleak. It's grey-toned, almost noir. And the action is very talky, linear. We figure that to make this work you need to loop in a couple of extra sub-plots, and doctor the character arcs to make them less shallow-curved. Josh is a depressing guy, but it's his movie, so we need to shape up the backstory, and we need to surround this very domestic, private world with some parallel action.'
'That,' said Hammond, 'is the sound of the American marketplace. Fifty per cent of the world market, ninety per cent of our money. We can handle it.'
'Rick is story-editing?' said Michael.
'Rick's co-ordinating input.'
He gazed at the short agent.
'Shane's not a screenwriter,' explained Mahler.
Hammond swung around. 'Michael, we need to lift this project.'
'We have scenarios.'
'We need to find,' said the star, 'some real out-there penalty for Josh's infidelity to his dying wife. These guys call it jeopardy. In the book it's psychological hell. In a feature film the hell must be concrete, life-threatening. And that ties into Adela's character. Their affair needs to be more than moral torture. She needs to be connected with some unexamined part of his past.'
He was dumbfounded. The ideas were extraordinarily radical.
'What d'you mean?'
'I want Josh to have a dangerous past. Let's say MI5, counter intelligence, but a desk job. Other people do the dirty work. This is all way off backstory.' Hammond swished back and forth, shaving the air with his hand, as if paring out sections of the novel he did not want. 'The man did a desk job like Harrison Ford in Clear and Present Danger.'
'Clear and Present Danger!'
'Anna's father was killed in action. An old friend of Josh. In fact, Josh is Anna's godfather.'
Michael could hardly believe his ears.
'Anna is late twenties, say a journalist, and she wants to know how her father died and whose fault it was. Right.' He held the point like an invisible rugby ball, as though he would pitch it to Michael. 'She believes Josh holds the clue, even though he's retired and has nothing to do with the firm. Josh's wife falls sick. Anna hears about this and offers her services as nurse. After a decent interval of nursing she starts to probe Josh. What neither of them expect to happen is an affair. The affair starts and this sticks close to the book. Adela's character discovers she's fallen for an older man. So the motives are complex but the passions are real. Then the backstory kicks in. Anna forces Josh to make enquiries about her dead father within the service, opening a bloody Pandora's Box. Bad guys are put on alert. Josh is going through his wife's terminal illness, and then, I don't know, the IRA are coming over the garden hedge. Something like that?'
'You mean a thriller?'
'This is not an exploitation movie,' said Mahler.
He glanced at Adela. He wondered whether she knew all this.
'This frames the book,' said Mahler. 'A structural brace.'
Time slowed down for him. The agents leaned towards him, Hammond gaped at the sky, Adela folded her arms and raised her chin, as if half distracted by the sun's warmth. He was totally stupefied. They were utterly changing the story.
And then the pounding started. His heart resisting everything, pounding against the trap.
'IRA is dated,' said Weislob.
'Mafia, whatever,' said Shane.
This was the moment to speak out. This was the moment to dig his heels in, and it terrified him that there was so much he wanted to say and could not say. Their ideas were alien, at odds with everything he had found in the book.
'Whose ideas are these?'
'It's a working plan,' said Hammond. 'Is it crap?'
He looked at Adela.
'What about setting?' said Mahler.
'Try Michael.'
'I'd keep the English setting.' His voice was light, powerless.
'Agreed.'
'Shay!'
Hammond turned to Mahler.
'Money's on New England. What did we say, Rick?'
Weislob steepled his fingers. 'Josh is ex-intelligence. Now affiliated as an academic to Ivy League. He and his wife are Americans. Anna's the English Rose god-daughter. Finance really dug the transatlantic love story. For MI5 read FBI. For IRA, ah shit, Mafia.'
'That's the American version,' explained Mahler.
Michael could not conceal his reaction. Mahler picked it up.
'What Shay's career needs, Michael, is an American lead. We all know too many top British actors who never hit top whack in the States because they could not play an American hero. Brits tend to be good villains, tongue-tied upper-class gooks, patrician charmers, and there's only so far you can go with mere good acting. Shay's already broken out of that. He's got the indefinable star quality and what we need is a vehicle to impact on a coast-to-coast American audience.'
Hammond frowned. 'Can we Americanise this story?'
'We need a character ordinary folks can relate to.'
'Well . . .'
'The story needs to position Shay as a loving man but a moral man.'
Michael could not contain himself. 'Who screws around while his wife is dying?'
Mahler shrugged. 'Shay, we need to talk about this.'
'That's the film, Tom.'
'Michael's put his finger on something.'
'The film is dark,' shrugged Hammond.
'You can't throw away sympathy for your character!'
'We'll fix it.'
'Easy,' said Weislob. 'The man's wife is bitch-city. Our hero has stuck in there through shit. Has tried to make the marriage work. But in his heart he's starved of love. The rest is bad timing.'
'This is what I'm up against,' said Hammond to Michael, as if he were no part of it.
'Does he reconcile with his wife before she dies?' asked Mahler.
Hammond referred to Michael. 'Does he?'
'Not in the book.'
'You know. That's kind of bleak,' said Mahler.
'These are just ideas,' said Hammond. He came back to his chair, sat down squarely. 'I'm not interested in making a Brit movie for the art-house circuit. I've done all that, paid my dues. I want a film that can open on fifteen hundred screens which isn't popcorn additive. Half the material's in the novel. Maybe more. The rest we have to find.'
Hammond had changed, Michael realised. At one point he must have been an artist, pure and simple, a man with a gift. Now he was an executive of his own career. His proposals were as pragmatic as his tone. And now he had relaxed Michael wondered if his initial touchiness were not the defensive pride of a man who knows he has sold out.
It was time for him to speak and yet, still, he had nothing he could say. There was nowhere to start. Their premises were incompatible, the Americans' too fluid, Hammond's too commercial. Anything he might say about the moral ambiguity of the book, its inconclusiveness and thwarted romanticism, its irony, its unhappy ending, its reality in his own imagination, would be meaningless to them.
He stood up. He felt dizzy. The light had got to him. The Americans' voices confused him. He looked across at the film star squinting back at him. He could not fathom how they expected Hilldyard to agree these suggestions. If Hilldyard would not agree them, how could he?
To deny Hilldyard's voice in the matter was to deny his own. He had denied Hilldyard and therefore had no voice. There was no part for him to play. He had no interest any more in these curious proceedings. He stood for absolutely nothing.
'What d'you say, Michael?'
He was a non-contributor.
'Any comment?' said Hammond.
He hesitated. 'I think we've got a lot of common ground.'
'Are we on the right track?'
Michael sat down. He wanted to say goodbye to them all. He needed but lacked courage.
Adela was waiting for him to speak. He looked at her blankly, wondering if she read his mind. This was what she wanted him to go through with.
Hammond caught Mahler's eye. 'Approval clause.'
Mahler nodded.
There were some whisperings. Mahler touched Gloria's sleeve. 'Contracts.'
Michael held his hands together and looked at the terrace flagstones. He would have to dig into himself to find what he wanted on the screen, and perhaps he wanted nothing more than the book.
'Are you happy, Michael?'
She was looking at him now.
He would not be producing this film, he thought. It would be happening around him, over him. Control would be meaningless unless he dug in now, and he could only dig in to say No, to say Ridiculous.
Weislob approached with his mobile. 'Need to call your adviser?'
Gloria sat at the second table, amending the assignment contract with her pen.
'One thing James Hilldyard can be sure of. If this film works, the book's going to be huge.'
Modesty was not Hammond's forte. Or maybe he knew enough to know that all great men are egotists, and that Hilldyard's egotism would take care of itself. It depressed him not to be able to speak his mind.
'Michael, you look fazed.'
He held the mobile phone.
'Press Call and then dial.'
It was outrageous, he thought, that they were so fearless of the book, so breezy about dismantling and dismembering it, as though stripping one art form for the benefit of another were a casual necessity, taken for granted. Their approach had no tact, no caution.
Mahler drew a chair across, sat near him. He laid a tanned, manicured hand on Michael's arm. It was a private beat, an inside-track moment for deal-makers.
'Shane has raised a very important point which we should address.' He spoke quietly. The others could not hear. 'He needs to have approval now.'
'Approval?'
'Of his vision.'
His heart sank and he laughed softly.
'Michael, I know the contract says script approval.'
'It does.'
'Can we make that vision approval instead? You've heard his ideas. They're great ideas. You know the way we're headed. What I would really like is for you to endorse the American-version coverage which we can annexe, so's right from the start we're on track.'
He spoke emptily. 'If I don't like the script?'
Mahler pursed his lips. 'You tell us, and we talk about it.'
He massaged his eye-sockets. 'Just talk?'
'Hey! You wouldn't tell Henry Ford how to make a motor car! Shay has to have' – he was hushed – 'approval over everybody. Because Shay is . . . the movie.'
Michael hesitated. There was nothing he could say.
Mahler patted his arm. 'Gloria will amend. Hey, chief, got your contract-signing pen?'
'Sounds good,' said Hammond.
'I think a celebration is in order.' Mahler turned to Adela. 'The lady is looking beautiful, and I have a thirst coming on.'
She smiled, took herself to the edge of the terrace.
Michael stirred himself to get up and walk around the pool and make his call to Adamson.
As the mobile processed the digits he gazed at the tableau by the pool. Hammond reclining in his bright white shirt; a waiter departing for champagne; Mahler by the table's edge, rubbing his hands and joking with Weislob; Adela in her blue, wind-wafted dress, leaning on the rail before the halcyon panorama, hair incandescent in the low light. On the pool's other side, an elderly German couple lay on deckchairs, fully clothed, eyes shut.
'Shit,' said Adamson, over the poor line.
That was it; they were defeated.
'Let's hope they make it.'
After the call, he drifted back. A row of champagne flutes was being filled. An ice bucket was on standby. Mahler had two chairs drawn up to the table, two sets of agreements placed on the cloth, two attendant pens, like cutlery, next to each contract.
'Take a seat, Michael.'
He wanted to say something, like a man in the dock, before going down.
'One swell place,' said Mahler, relief in his voice.
Hammond followed Adela to the balcony. He stood next to her, hands behind his back, falling into her scene as if for the camera's eye.
Michael raised his pen. He looked again.
'How about lunch?' said the film star softly.
She turned to him and smiled. Michael had seen the smile before.
'Sign here. Initial there.' Mahler's finger touched the page.
'That would be great,' she replied.
Hammond said something. He could not hear what. Soon they were talking.
He let the nib down, still waiting. Out of the corner of his eye he saw rising champagne bubbles. They trickled upwards from the bottom of the glass, gasped on the surface.
He signed his name carefully, laboriously, as though his consent were held back to the last letter. It was strange to be tied for ever in the loops of one's name to a company called Cine Inc; strange to become no more than a link in the chain of title, a channel for the passage of rights.
Shane strode back at Mahler's calling, made a performance of signing, grabbed a champagne glass for a high-handed toast and slapped Michael on the back en route. His signature had just dispatched a hundred thousand dollars from an account somewhere, owned by one of his companies – part of a tax structure that his accountants and lawyers understood, in the scheme of things now he was big. Such transactions were fiscally shrewd, for him to sign off on and for the suits to get right.
'This is the life,' said the actor, giving Adela a glass. He toasted her. 'Where is Positano?' he said.
She laughed. 'Italy, you fool!'
'I know that, ma'am! Where's Rome from here?'
'Behind you.'
He glanced over his shoulder.
'About two hundred miles.'
'By the way, you're looking very lovely today.'
She smiled.
He laughed heartily. 'Hey, Tom!'
Mahler was alert.
'Every single time we meet, you're drinking vintage champagne on expenses.'
Mahler cracked a smile. 'There's always something to celebrate when you're around.'
'Platinum-tongued Yank.'
Mahler laughed louder. Being with Shane was great.
'Beats Perrier in the Polo Lounge. I'm telling you, Adela, never have so many sharks drunk so much fizzy water. You guys should relocate here. Get some grappa under your belts.'
'Pass,' said Weislob.
'Really, Rick! You do surprise me.'
'Know what, chief, this place is like Deadsville.'
Hammond laughed. 'Adela, where can we go for a nice quiet lunch?'
Michael sat at the table, listening. He was cast adrift, inert, and then he saw James Hilldyard.
He wore a linen jacket, baggy trousers, and was being directed to their group by a waiter. He stood for a moment on the far side of the pool; and then he saw Michael and started making his way towards them. He moved quickly along, as though arriving late, and Michael saw him and the shock of it made him dizzy. He was caught at it, witless, unable to think.
Nobody else noticed Hilldyard before he passed the champagne table, and by then he was heading so quickly towards the man in the white shirt his intrusion was completed before it could be stopped.
The author stood there, vibrant with indignation. His eyes glistened as he spoke. 'Are you Shane Hammond?'
The actor turned. 'I am he. What can I do for you?'
Michael saw Adela's face.
'Excuse me, sir, this is a private gathering,' said Mahler.
'Fuck off back to La-La Land.'
Hammond's eyebrows skipped up.
She was speechless too long.
'Tom.' Hammond shrugged. 'Can we lose the stand-up comedian?'
'Sir, this is . . .'
'James Hilldyard. Sir.'
Hammond changed colour. 'Oh God! I'm so sorry. I had no idea. It's a privilege to meet you.'
Hilldyard looked severely at the extended hand.
Mahler was wide-eyed.
'I do not wish to be met.'
Hammond was open-mouthed.
'Shane.' Adela came off the balcony.
'How can you help me, indeed?' Hilldyard was precipitate. 'By removing yourself and your entourage from this town and understanding that you will never make a film based on my book, and that I curse any attempt to persuade me to grant an option, that I detest adaptations, and am horrified by the behind-the-scenes manipulation that has gone on around me and my guest. My head is not turned, and never will be, by the interest of famous actors or the wiles of young actresses. I hold Hollywood in contempt and regard this gathering as a disgrace. Is that completely unambiguous?'
Michael buried his face in his hands.
Hammond's confusion was undisguised. He glanced at Mahler and Weislob, sharing shock.
Mahler got moving, bringing himself around to face Hilldyard where his conciliatory body-language and sincere respectability could have its best effect. 'Mr Hilldyard. Please forgive us. I think there has been a misunderstanding.'
'There has. It is yours, and I have ended it.'
Hammond flinched. 'I'll be damned.'
'You will be damned.'
'Rick, get a chair.'
'Don't patronise me!'
Hammond swallowed his pride. 'Please . . . these are my representatives. Tom Mahler, Rick Weislob. This is my attorney. They've flown here from LA.'
'Not at my behest.'
'Excuse me! You've signed an option agreement. Tom!'
Mahler, like a clerk of the court, passed the option agreement to Hammond.
'Here it is. Signed in your own fair hand.'
Hilldyard did not react.
'Am I right or am I right?'
Michael boiled in shame. He glanced at Adela. Her skin was pale; her forearms were tense.
Hilldyard had absorbed the challenge and now stepped closer to the actor. He looked at him unwaveringly before he spoke. 'Which would you rather believe, the author in person, or a piece of paper?'
Hammond stared at the old man, an uncomprehending stare.
'Mr Hilldyard.' Mahler made his entry again.
'I don't need the agent when I can talk to the principal!'
'This is a binding document!'
'Would you bind me against my will?'
Hammond's expression corrupted as he registered the strength of Hillyard's feelings.
'Sir, your will is expressed in this contract. You know what it is to sign a legal document.'
'And if I signed the blasted thing by mistake–' He turned pained eyes on Mahler. 'Surely you'd let me withdraw from the agreement? Surely, Mr Hammond, you'd leave my poor book alone if I asked you politely?'
Hammond frowned. 'Politely? You just said fuck off!'
'I'll take that back.'
'Please note, Gloria.' Mahler cupped his chin. 'Signature admitted.'
'Yes, I do admit it.' He was vehement. 'I signed the thing yesterday evening at eight o'clock and since then I've had second thoughts and the law of contract is one thing but ordinary human decency is another. As far as I'm concerned the thing in your hand is morally void.'
'Michael!'
Hilldyard blinked, glancing hesitantly at Michael, and then looking away again.
'Can you tell us what the fuck is going on?'
They were looking at him now. He had no voice. He was paralysed. Hilldyard was defying him to lie before the others and betray him in public. He had second-guessed him, knowing his true nature, had come here with courage and resolution.
He felt Hammond's eyes drilling into him. Hammond had not backed down. He was standing on his rights, displeased and unbending. He refused to defer to a man who showed no respect.
He saw it now, everything.
'Easy, Michael,' Mahler dapperly interceded, palms pressed tight. 'Whatever Mr Hilldyard is alluding to, it is not in your power to revoke an agreement which has been assigned to a third party. Legally, we own the option, and Mr Hilldyard's change of heart is irrelevant to that fact.'
'Oh for God's sake, man! This isn't a game! The contract's totally void. Meaningless. Tell him, Michael!'
'Michael, I'd counsel silence, in your own best interests.'
Hammond stood straight, alert and inflexible. 'Michael can deny it.'
'You can certainly deny it,' said Mahler.
By the balcony, hands tight on the rail, she was intensely willing him to speak. Her mouth was ajar; eyes brilliant.
His mouth was parched. He tried to swallow.
'Void for duress,' said the author quietly.
Mahler theatrically turned. 'That's a very serious allegation. Prima facie slanderous. You wanna take it back?'
'Take back the truth?'
Mahler slapped his pants. 'Michael, you are being accused of unconscionable pressure in getting Mr Hilldyard to sign a contract. If that damaging assertion is true, and I sincerely hope Mr Hilldyard is mistaken, you are exposed to legal action not only from the victim of the duress but from the assignee of your option rights. I can't believe that a producer of standing and integrity would put himself in that position. Can you please give me reassurance that this is not the case?'
Hilldyard averted his eyes, as though he knew Michael's character and did not need to encourage a response.
'Are you going to sit there like a stewed prune,' asked Hammond, eyes bloodshot with flu, 'or are you going to put the record straight?'
Michael could not defend himself, and he could not speak against Hilldyard. He was dissolving.
She came across from the rail, walked between Hammond and Mahler, strode towards Michael, put herself between him and the others.
It was all falling through for him.
'Come on,' she said.
He gave her a look.
'Say something!'
He could smell the perfume in the folds of her dress.
'Michael!'
She would have him say what he knew, deflect Hilldyard with allusions to this or that, hints of exposure. She wanted him to use his secret.
'Michael has been defending your best interests right through this meeting.' Mahler raised a judicious finger. 'I'd like to record that.'
'And I'd like to erase you!'
'Jesus, Tom!' Hammond snapped. 'I thought this was sewn up.'
'Shay, for Christ's sake! This is news to me.'
'That's the trouble with you guys. You're always one step behind.'
Mahler gaped with panicky embarrassment, swapped glances with Gloria.
Weislob came over, face notched with anger, mouth stretching and warping around the shapes of unspeakable words.
'Come on, Mikey baby. We ain't wiring that hundred grand till you start telling the truth.'
'Easy, Rick.'
'Hey, man, say the words!'
'Michael's in a sensitive position. And we must be tactful in taking his loyal reticence as a polite denial of Mr Hilldyard's allegation. Mr Hilldyard, sir, if you hold a grievance against Michael, it is your right to have recourse against him. Meanwhile we, as bona fide purchasers for value without notice, own the rights, which we intend to exploit with or without your blessing. And frankly, sir, I don't see any court on this earth voiding a contract because of your indecision. This is the real world, and in the real world honourable men are bound by their signature.'
'I told him' – Hilldyard let the air run out of his lungs – 'personal confidences which he threatened to expose if I didn't sign. The contract is void. He has assigned you a void.'
'You fucking little hypocrite,' Weislob hissed at Michael.
'This man is the hypocrite.' The author pointed at Hammond.
'Don't slander my client!'
He needled Hammond with a crooked finger half bent in Weislob's direction. 'This man represents you?'
'You were blackmailed, then?' said Hammond, with a raised eyebrow.
'Don't interrogate me! Who d'you think you are?'
'You're very rude, Mr Hilldyard, and I'm just wondering what God-given right you have to insult people you've never met before. You know, I'm beginning to think you're pulling rank because you've got no moral high ground to stand on whatsoever.'
'There speaks an over-priced actor. I'm no star-fucker, but I can tell you, go ahead and make that picture and the world will know how you and this actress preyed on this man, flattered, tempted and corrupted him with money and sexual favours so that he would put unbearable pressure on me to sign the option. If anyone has exerted duress it is you. It is your persistence, your greed and egotism that's caused this mess, and it's your image that will be ruined if you defy me.'
'You're blackmailing us!' She rounded on him, flaring with rage. 'You're slandering me! You have no right to say those things. I never corrupted Michael. I've never had sex with him. It's your imagination that's completely corrupt. And let me tell you, if it came to a contest between the world's good opinion of Shane and a man with your history . . .'
'Adela!' Michael rose suddenly.
'You wouldn't stand a chance.'
Hilldyard blinked. He realised that Michael had betrayed him a second time. He had not kept the secret.
She was flushed, hyperventilating, pent up with wrath.
'Adela!'
'If the world knew the truth about you, you'd be finished. About you and Frances. Talk about corruption. He fucked his fifteen-year-old niece on the bed of his dying wife!'
'Shut up!' screamed Michael.
'You filthy pervert. How dare you threaten us!'
'Michael!' Hilldyard stepped back, eyes burning with anguish.
'You have no respect for ordinary people. No respect for anyone but yourself. You're a monster, a sexual abuser, an adulterer, but you think you stand above us all because you write novels.'
'Oh God,' gasped Hilldyard, raising his right hand.
'Don't deny it. Michael told me everything. I mean, did your wife die of shock, or did she take pills? And what about Frances? How many suicide attempts have you inflicted on her?'
Hilldyard made a lunge, sending a hand through the air, as if to beat the sound of her voice, but groaned instead, clutching the back of the chair and looking at Weislob with an expression of agonised injustice. He held position for a moment, then flopped in a faint, gashing his head on the chair-arm as he went.
Michael dropped to his side.
Hilldyard's head rolled on the ground.
Mahler was on his knees. 'Loosen his shirt.'
The gash on his forehead was blue before it bled. Mahler pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it against the wound.
Hammond grimaced. 'Fucking hell, Adela!'
'Will you get some water, please,' said Michael, hands under Hilldyard's head.
'Ooh, nasty! Rick, hotel doctor.'
'Get some water, please!'
The face was a death mask, the eyes sunken, the jaw slack.
'Come on, old boy. You got a pulse?' said Mahler.
Michael wept as he felt under the sleeve, thumb seeking radial artery, skating on the feathery skin of his wrist.
Rick was shinning it round the pool, a short man in a dead-sprint.
'Michael!' She was desperate.
'He's breathing,' said Mahler.
The groan was ugly, inhuman, as Hilldyard gasped awake, rearing forward.
'Easy, easy.'
He touched his head, found blood leaking through his fingers.
'Don't move.'
Hilldyard struggled. He pushed Michael away, rolled sideways, managed to rise up. He got a hand to the chair but then his legs crumpled and his old shoulder went hard against the flagstones.
There were blood spots on Michael's shoe.
Hilldyard thrust himself up again, face contorted with effort. He panted as he rose, brushed his knees with a wince, stared at his palms. Then he turned and pushed his way through the group, staggering around the chairs and following the edge of the pool, heading out the same way he came in.
Michael caught up with him on the far side of the terrace. The author halted, eyes watery with pain, and thrust his hand against Michael's chest, knocking him back and propelling himself the final few yards into the building. He nearly smashed into an exiting waiter, averted, dodged a deckchair and disappeared through a doorway.
Michael paused for a moment, and then ran after him along the arcaded corridor towards the flight of steps.
Halfway up the steps Hilldyard turned above him. Their faces were a yard apart, the author's warped by distress.
'You've finished me.'
Michael clutched the old man's arm.
His skin changed colour, the shadow of premonition.
Abruptly, frantically, he tried to free his arm and Michael held on. The old man was right before him, but looking to a further point, askance, while his breath brushed Michael's neck.
'Now it's me that has no option,' he said, and twisted violently so that Michael lost his grip.
He made good his escape, forcing himself up the remaining steps into the foyer where he hurried on to the doors and the street without a backward glance.
Mahler sat in a chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Hammond was a frozen bystander, champagne glass held loosely in hand. Gloria Sabbatini and Rick Weislob stood in conference at a distance and gave Michael Lear, when he returned, the briefest of glances.
He came back into the silent group with no care for their thoughts. Hammond did not see him, would not register his presence. Only Adela acknowledged his stare with an expression that was neither hard nor penitent. She had the look of someone exposed. She trembled still with the shock of what she had said.
'That went well,' said Hammond, knocking back the champagne.
The actor's interests had not been furthered. He was deciding what to do about it. 'Where's Frank?'
'Ahh.' Mahler checked his watch. 'He's in LA.'
'Fuck, this is uncool.'
Michael wanted to speak to her. Her look told him not to try. Her arms were crossed tightly against remonstration or appeal.
Weislob and Sabbatini wandered over. 'Relax, chief. We got the contracts. We got the rights. He fucks around, we ringfence him.'
'Are you totally coked?'
'Hey, this is a done deal. It's legally ours.'
'Rick.' Mahler's voice was tired, on edge. 'There's a duress point.'
'To prove which he has to crap on himself.'
Michael subsided in shame.
Hammond took up the point. 'You're saying he won't sue because we know he's a sex fiend?'
'He didn't hang around for second helpings.'
Mahler groaned.
'We just go ahead and make the film!'
Weislob jabbed away with his mobile phone, as if it were grafted to his hand. 'Listen, Michael did the duress. We're bona fide purchasers for value without notice.'
'We just had a faceful of fucking notice!'
'Suppose we lose the notice?'
Michael could not believe his ears.
'You mean we agree to lose the notice?'
'The old guy never came here. Our word against his. Six eyewitnesses never saw nothing. And if he wants to remember telling us duress, we get our memories back and remind him what Adela said.'
'Which was untrue,' said Michael.
She shook her head, shivering.
'What's the truth, Michael?' Hammond was cruel-faced.
'Chief, this isn't about truth. It's about the law of contract.'
He went right up to her. She could save herself now or be damned for ever.
'Tell them it was a lie!'
She raised a hand.
'Take it back.'
She fixed him with a look of plaintive intensity. Her frightened eyes begged him to be sensible, to go with the flow, to move with, not against her.
'Find her another role,' he said.
Hammond shrugged. 'Like they really grow on trees.'
'You can't make this film!'
'You sold us the fucking rights,' said Weislob. 'Who are you to talk?'
Michael wanted to touch her face. She wanted to let him touch it but her eyes said no.
'She was lying,' he said.
'Michael!'
'You can't make the film on the basis of her allegations. You can't blackmail Hilldyard with lies. Don't you understand? She wants the part. She'll say anything!'
She caught his arm and pushed him backwards, towards the balcony rail, shoving him away from the others, her lips drawn, wrists locked, revealing something unfamiliar to the men behind her. She stood with her back to them. Her eyes were jewel-bright.
'You know it's true,' she hissed. 'You told me!'
'In confidence!'
'He's admitted it!'
'He admitted duress! The rest you told them! You've got to take it back.'
She shook her head, almost smiling at the paradox. 'But it's the truth!'
On either side he saw staring faces, Hammond, Mahler, Sabbatini.
He looked at her again. 'Truth means nothing to you.'
He saw the reaction, the alarm of it striking her, as if honesty could compel something at last.
She endured his grip. 'You'll spoil everything, Michael.'
His fingers sank into her arm and with the pain of it she sidestepped, breasts jiggling. She widened her eyes in desperate appeal. 'For us, then!'
There was a depth of vulnerability in her look.
'I need you,' she breathed.
'Need me?'
'This is working!' Her eyes flickered.
'Are you trying to tell me something?'
'I'm trying to tell you . . .'
Her eyes spoke of something nascent, something mutual, some strange kinship caught up in the whole bad business, of two consciences in the same state of desire and disrepair and difficulty. In the hard look she gave him he saw her contempt for Hammond, and her knowledge of the risk she was taking in simply staring at him in this way when the others were so close.
'I want you,' she said, between clenched teeth.
It came to him suddenly. This was how her love would work. He hesitated, drew closer, inhaled the full incense of her nearness. 'Tell them it was a lie, then. Tell them for ''us'' '.
Something dark crossed her face: a lapse, an inward distraction.
The moment had come.
She gasped, reaching out to him with the tip of her finger, which brushed his jacket.
'Michael . . .'
The connection was loosening, a thing stretching out, a grip sliding, sliding, until suddenly the hands parted and she was dropping away, her dress fluttering in the free-fall of separation.
'Adela!'
It hit him like a blow in the chest, something knocking him back.
She turned violently to the others, shouted at them. 'It's all true.'
'Despicable,' he yelled, a voice-ricochet around the pool.
It came across his vision like a whorl of black and it blinded him as he stood there, hands hanging, ready to drop, and through the dots he saw shapes, a wing or throbbing form that seemed to grip his throat and choke him until he felt the balcony rail in his back and the hard ground under his knee-cap and felt himself gasping and conscious again.
They stared at him as he rose.
It came to him quickly. The contracts were still on the table.
'Adela!' He took one of her earrings from his pocket, held it up, let it dangle from his fingers.
She could not hide her embarrassment, and when he threw it at her she fumbled the catch and dropped it.
'Now d'you believe me?' he asked Hammond.
The actor was transparent for a moment.
'She'd do anything.'
'It's not mine,' she said.
Michael saw the ugliness of her desperation.
'She'll fuck anybody,' he said, staring at Hammond, connecting the two of them, hot-wiring them together. 'Even you!'
He made it to the table in swift strides, gathering the two Hammond agreements and tearing them up, a crossways shredding and ripping into small pieces. He took his agreement with Hilldyard and stuck it in his pocket. And then Weislob came at him terrier-like, adding his hands to the tussle, and getting Michael's elbow on his cheekbone.
'Fuck sake,' said Hammond in the far-off background; Weislob was pulling weightlessly and deflectably, and Michael could see through the tunnel of his resolution that nothing was not torn or scattered and that he had in his hand the signature page, ripped in half, which he needed as evidence.
With heat in his eyes he turned for a last look at the actress, at the agonised stances of the agents, at the trumped face of Shane Hammond, and then made his way around the pool, away from the group, away from the five-star view of the town, the champagne buckets and parasols and deluxe recliners.